Sunday, December 30, 2007
That was over 25 years ago, and I never thought it bothered me. He moved back home with my dad to finish school in the late 90's, and, from all reports, was living a quiet life as the dutiful 1st son. He started his party planning business, found success as a choir pianist, and was (is) a sought after decorator for holiday parties. So, he wasn't exactly hiding the fact that he didn't like football, working on cars with dad, or working anything that involved power tools or wood (ha ha, cute, I know, but it's late and I can't think of anyway else to put it).
Yet, after knowing his inclination, and even after meeting a couple of his boyfriends, it came to me as quiet a shock when, while driving down a snowy street on the day after Christmas, he hot a picture on his cell phone. I wasn't trying to spy on purpose, but as i looked over there was a penis on his phone. An erect, fairly sizable, penis.
It stared out at me with it's one big eye as if it was in 3D on my brother's tiny cell phone. There, in full and living color, was proof that my brother liked men, and specifically, their penises.
I didn't say anything, I was mortified, but more than that, I was surprised that I was mortified. For some reason I had convinced myself that living at home, in a conservative "Christian' neighborhood, that my brother, a healthy, talented, social, successful and somewhat good-looking man, was living a celibate life as my dad's house mate and friend.
How naive of me, I know. But why did I have to convince myself that he was celibate in the first place? Could I not really handle the truth about my brother, that he has relationships, and sex, with men? I recent years I described him as a "celibate homosexual", as if it was OK to be gay, to like men, as long as you didn't do anything about it. At church we were always taught to "love the sinner, hate the sin." I think I carried that out as "Love the sinner, ignore the sin." I acknowledged that he was gay, but convinced myself that he didn't do gay things.
Now I have this very concrete image of my brother as a sexual being. There was a penis on his phone, and I have a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't the first time he's seen it. I mean geeze, I've dated lots of women and not once have they sent pictures of themselves naked to my cell phone. Maybe I'm jealous that he's living the Libertine lifestyle while I am stuck in a fairly sexless marriage. Maybe the reality is setting in that he's seen, played with, and touched that penis.
Maybe it's like that moment when you realized that your dad gave your mom the finger to make her cum, that she probably went down on him and swallowed, or that grandma and grandpa liked it doggie style.
Maybe there is such a thing as "Too Much Information," and that when it's your brother, a simple text message can go over that line pretty fast.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
I was in college, living at home, commuting 25 miles to school on the bus every day, and holding down a part-time job at the library to pay expenses. My dad said that I could live at home rent-free as long as I was in school and kept my grades up. He also covered my car insurance on a seven-year-old Toyota Tercel with a slashed back seat that was a gift from my brother who forgot that he was carrying a box cutter on his way home from his job at the local grocery store.
I would catch the bus early in the morning and get to my first class at 8:10 am. I stayed in class until noon when I would get out, head to the sports center for a few minutes at the gym, and then grab lunch and head to the library for work at 2:00. I know that this is dating myself, but when I was in college I worked in the library checking out software on a single floppy disk. Word, Excel, Word Perfect, Lotus 1-2-3 all fit on one disk in our cool, new, 9-inch screen Mac computers. We were high tech with a laser printer that only cost 25 cents a page to print. I made extra money by designing Excel charts for the liberal arts kids at $5.00 a page, unless you were cute, flirty, and a girl, then the price dropped to $2.50 a page.
I stayed at work until around 6:00 PM. After that I would start studying and try to be on the last bus at 9:00 pm. I worked 4 days a week and Thursday was my day off. This worked well because Thursday was “student day” at our local ski resorts with $5 lift passes. All my friends worked hard to get M-W-F class schedules in the winter so we could hit the slopes every week without having to ditch Thursday classes.
Thursday was also my day to get all my crap done that I couldn’t get to during the week. My favorite errand, and the reason for this story, was getting my hair cut on 9th East, at a little barber shop just north of the mall and across the street from the park. I found this place because my friends and I would meet for Frisbee Football (remember, I’m old now) on the weekends.
I dropped in early one Saturday morning to get a price list but the door was locked. Some of the lights were on in the back, so I knocked a couple of times and waited, watching for my friends to pulling to the parking lot across the street. My car was always parked in front of the same lamp post every Saturday so they would know if I had arrived since I owned the flags from a summer spent as a camp counselor.
Through the barber shop windows I saw an older Hispanic man cross the back of the shop with a broom in his hand. I knocked again, hoping not to break the glass, or my knuckles. While I was waiting for him to reappear, Ray pulled in to the lot and parked next to me. I stepped to the sidewalk and called his name. He saw me as he got out of his car and I threw him my keys so he could unlock the trunk and get out the stuff to start the game.
Now that I knew someone was in the shop, I wasn’t about to give up.
I turned around to knock again and almost rapped my knuckles on the forehead of a woman who was opening the shop.
“Watch yourself kid,” She said, and laughed at my obvious embarrassment, “What’s the rush?”
“I just need a haircut.” I stammered, forgetting that I was really only there for a price sheet.
She took me by the hand, pulled me into the shop, and led me to the first chair on the left. The shop was classic barbershop décor. Old magazines, mostly sports but a couple of Playboys at the bottom of the stack. There were mirrors in front of each chair and a couple of black and white TVs anchored to home-built shelves between the cutting stations. The smell of shaving cream and disinfectant pervaded the air and I started having flashback to watching my dad get his hair cut at “Frankie’s Chop Shop”, a surprisingly hip name for 65+ year-old Frankie.
She stood behind my chair and pressed her foot on the pedal, lowering my eyes until they were even with her breasts. I tried to avoid staring at them but they were terrific and it was difficult to look away. She started by running her fingers through my hair and all over my scalp, not doubt looking for dandruff and trying to see if I had the bad hygiene habits of most of my peers, single college kids with no sense of style.
“Are you with the football group?” She asked as she looked me over and saw that I was wearing cleats.
“Yea, just a bunch of guys that get together to get hurt on a Saturday morning.” I responded, hoping to sound witty, afraid of sounding ridiculous.
“Looks like fun” she said as she spun me around to face the mirror, her long fingers still running through my hair, but now with a less clinical touch, more for comfort and connection, “Maybe I’ll join in and show you guys how a long out is supposed to be run.”
“Anytime!” I responded, immediately fearing I had been too enthusiastic. Trying to recover, I said, “We could always use a cute cheerleader on the sidelines.” I smiled at her in the mirror, until she brought out her razor and reminded me of which one of us was carrying the blade…
I smiled sheepishly and apologized, “All is want cut is my hair.” I stammered, “I’m sorry.”
“I won’t hurt you,” she said, grinning at me in the mirror, “I may kill you, but you won’t feel a thing.” She glared this time, and then burst into a laugh that filled the room.
She pulled out a large apron and covered me with it and leaning my chair back. Now I couldn’t help but stare up into her beautiful green eyes, and right past her chest. From my new angle, I could see her bra through her light t-shirt and I started to get a little aroused. As she started to cut my hair I told myself to behave and relaxed, wondering what my friends were thinking. Ray saw me go into the shop but had they started the game without me? I guess they weren’t worried since no one had come to check on me, but still, I wanted them to know that I was still coming to play.
“Do you mind if I go let my friends know that I’ll be a while?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she said, putting her scissors to the side, “should we give them something to think about?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Just follow my lead she said.” She stepped back from the chair and stood up. Her hands went to her waist and she unbuckled her belt and unzipped her pants. As she pulled them down, a cute pair of panties came in to view. Not a g-string, but cut high on the waist with full coverage over her front and rear. “You go out first and wave to them, and try not to panic when I come out.”
“WHAT?” was my only reply.
“Come on lover-boy,” she giggled, “Let’s play with their heads a bit.”
I walked to the door and stepped out into the bright morning air. The sun was just coming over the mountains to the east and I had to raise my hand and shade my eyes from the glare. I yelled for Ray and waved my arms to get his attention. The game stopped and they yelled back and asked when I was coming out to play.
Just then I felt the door open behind me. She stepped in close and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her hip into mine, but staying to the side so the boys could see her.
“He’s going to be busy for a while,” she shouted, “He has other games to play!”
They were staring in disbelief as she turned back into the shop. They saw plainly that she was wearing no pants, and the bright red of her panties caught their attention in a hurry.
As they started running across the street, she grabbed my hand, pulled me into the shop, and locked the door. They were staring at her beautiful body through the window. She returned their looks without hesitation, letting them stare and soak in her brazen looks.
Then, without breaking their stare, she reached out and closed the blinds, blocking their view, and drowning out their frustrated cheers.
She turned to me, pulled off her shirt, revealing a matching bra, and said, “Now, let’s really give them something to think about.”
End, Part 1
Friday, December 14, 2007
I dreamed about you last night. I dreamed and smiled and was happy that I was able to remember it when I woke up. The dream, like most, was fleeting and disjointed, and made no sense overall, but you were in it and that was enough to make it a good moment.
I was standing on the back of a large flatbed truck, surrounded by a large carnival or flea market, it felt temporary, but we could have been on the outside of a permanent, but shabby amusement park. I was part of a work crew fixing problems with the electrical system, a manhole cover was off and my supervisor was down in the hole as we watched and joked.
After peering down in to the hole I turned around and saw you climbing on to the truck. As usual, you didn’t worry about a little dirt and dust. You were in you favorite jeans, light blue and tight, and a soft green t-shirt that had a light green embroidered edging and some kind of lettering on the front. In m dream I couldn’t read it, but, knowing you, it was probably the name of the shirt’s designer, a detail that added $20 to the price and no small amount to your ego.
Though you couldn’t afford them on your paycheck and alimony, you bought the $30 shirt when a $10 would do, and if it said Dolce & Gabana, you weren’t happy until it was yours.
You climbed up on to the truck and stood in front of my, one hip cocked to the side, making you look a little shorter (which you hated) but cocky and defiant. The material of your t-shirt was thin and smooth, and I saw that you were wearing a bra, but a thin, and no doubt see-through bra that held your small breasts in their perfect and perky shape. As you approached 40, and despite the three children, I was always amazed at how your breasts had held their shape, their soft curves, their fullness, and their sensitivity.
That was one of the wonderful quirks about you, that you could orgasm just by touching your nipples and caressing your chest. I only got to see that happen once, but it has been constant inspiration since then, and I have yet to find a woman who enjoyed her body, that specific part of her body, quite as much as you.
Your dream self stood and stared at me for a while without speaking. Long enough for me to look away and pay attention to the work going on down-hole. Twisting reality and fiction, as dreams do, my boss’s boss arrived, and it was my pastor, dressed in his collar, but fully suited in his HazMat suit to go down the hole. He knows you, and looked up at you through the safety glass visor of his helmet and smiled. He pointed at you, and then back to me, and then gave you a questioning look, as if hoping that we were back together.
You shook your head “no” and he shrugged your shoulders. He had a crush on you even after I told him all the things that I had done with you while I was still married. I think he wanted you for himself, and, since you like authority figures and guys who carried a few extra pounds, I knew that you though of him once in a while when you would lock the bathroom door and pleasure yourself.
But, seeing you shake your head, telling him that you were not here to reconcile, brought me back to the reality within the dream and so I looked at you as if to ask, “Why are you here then?”
You anticipated my question and started to talk, telling me that you just wanted to say hi and that you hoped that things were going well. My dreamself wanted to smack you upside the head, knock you off the truck, and then kiss you deeply as you lay startled on the ground. Mixed emotions ran through my head and memories lingered, even as my phone started beeping, bringing me out of the dream and into my day.
When I got to work this morning I re-read the questionnaire I developed for you after you asked me to write a story for you. Your answers to deeply sexual and personal answers made me smile, not for the answers themselves, but for the willingness you showed in answering them. You shared your preferences (doggy style, and thick, shaved cocks), your fantasies (in the kitchen at noon with the window open), you techniques (right hand, middle finger), and your favorite dirty word (“cum”). You shared more, and it was in your own handwriting, and I have kept it ever since. When I need a memory, a fantasy, an image of you to get me through the day, I pull out my “personal” file and read it again, and let myself daydream about you.
I imagine us back together again, with all the insanity, the fights, the mood swings, and the jealousy, I imagine holding you again, feeling your press against me in your sweats on cold winter mornings. I remember pressing myself up against you the minute you walk into my office and close the door. I miss letting you watch me, and you returning the favor.So I dreamed of you last night, and I smiled, and I try to forgive you for how it ended and ask for your forgiveness for the pain we caused each other. But I do remember you, I think of you, and I smile.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
I love starched white dress shirts on women. Tall elegant women with long necks, lightly tanned skin, dark hair and forest green eyes were born to wear starched with shirts.
The woman I work with, my favorite fantasy, is in a new outfit today that is perfect for her figure and frame. She is 5’8’ tall, slim, great abs, and a wonderfully full 32B chest. She is a good dresser, evocative of her funkier side while maintaining the professionalism our bosses require. She is in 2” heels. Long, well-draped gray slacks fit comfortably below her waist on her diminutive hips. A long, starched, pleated white dress shirt covers her bare midriff and a highlights her deep brown hair and dark pink lips. Over the shirt is a vest which matches the pants in front, with a black silk back, complete with a sliding silver buckle to make it snug.
The vest has only two buttons in the front; it is low-cut and wraps around her ribs tightly, causing her blouse to poof out a bit, highlighting her chest without revealing it. She has a knack, a wonderfully frustrating knack of being immensely sexual and completely modest at the same time. Her outfits cover, but do not confine her figure. She wears a shear black bra, but under a lacy chiffon blouse that hints, but does not divulge. She goes, on occasion, without a bra, but then covers up with a heavy sweater over a silk shirt. Her full breasts have a visual weight to them, you know they would be perfect in your hands, but she hides them, and teases me, and makes me smile.
Just a couple of favorites from www.flickr.com on this topic
Oops (need to be logged in to Flickr - sorry)
But never, ever, this
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Last Friday I was going to lunch with a girlfriend. She came by my desk to get me and we walked down the hall together. I yelled to my office manager that I was leaving and she yelled back a disgruntled, “OK”
I checked my watch and said, in my best secret agent voice, “59 minutes and counting.”
We left our office suite and entered the main corridor. The Christmas decorations, or, “Holiday Decorations” were everywhere and it reinforced my joy at being away from my desk for 58 more minutes of shopping with my best work friend. We were just feet from the door when she said that she had to go to the bathroom.
“No!” I said, in my mock-horror voice, “You never pee at lunch. We get 3 bathroom breaks a day that don’t get charged to our break time, and I’m not going to waste my lunch time while you pee. You should have done that earlier.”
She grabbed herself between the legs and laughed and said that she, “Really had to go.” And that I could just walk on ahead without her. I moaned in frustration and glared at her.
“OK, but you are going to pay for this.” I playfully snarled and took her by the hand and walked her past the women’s bathroom and around the corner.
“Where are we going?” She asked.
“I told you were going to pay for this.” I walked her around the corner to the door of the handicapped bathroom. It had the twin benefits of being private, big enough for two, and out of range of the security camera.
The puzzled look on her face was priceless as I used my security key to open the door and I led her in. I turned around and locked the door behind us, then stood tall and faced her.
“Well?” I said.
“Well, what?” she replied.
“You are joking.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I don’t know why you are so embarrassed; you let me listen to you yesterday.”
A look of realization spread across her face. “You could hear that?”
“You have a very good cell phone.”
She started to giggle to herself and then she started doing the bathroom dance.
“I really have to go.”
“Pee” I said and stepped to the sink to turn the water on, hoping it would have same impact on my beautiful friend as it did on my little brothers.
“You are so mean.”
I just smiled at her. She was beautiful and my heart was pounding in my chest at what I was trying to get away with. She and I had talked about everything under the sun, we had no secrets, but we had never, ever, even come close to crossing the line physically. Except for an enthusiastic hug at various social events, we barely even touched.
“Pee for me.” I said, making it a request, not a taunt, not a challenge.
With a whispered “OK” she acknowledged that the mood was shifting and that more than our lunch hour was at stake.
She was wearing a knee length skirt, light and airy, with a million pleats and a soft taffeta lining underneath. Her blouse was light green, almost a lime green, but with just a hint of tan woven in to soften the color. She wore no hose, and had on 2-inch pumps that were simple and black.
She smiled and faced me. Putting her left hand on my right shoulder she bent over and took off her left shoe. She stood up, handed me the patent leather pump, switched hands and removed her other shoe.
Barefoot and without hose, she was a full three inches shorter than me and looked younger than our 24 years. Without moving towards the toilet, she reached up under her skirt and hooked her fingers into her panties. They came down her soft thighs and fell to the floor in a tangled heap, the red, green, and silver stripes stood out in bright contrast to the black tile floor.
“Will you get those for me?” She asked, turning the tables so that I too was fulfilling a request, answering her call as she answered mine.
I bent one knee and dropped to the floor and reached out for them. With a sudden, but steady move, she lightly kicked my hand out of the way, causing me to lose my balance and end up on my knees in front of her. My heart began racing.
“With your mouth.” She said.
Her enthusiasm for our unfolding scene caused my breathing to quicken. Ignoring the image of a million germs on a public bathroom floor, I bent down, stuck out my tongue, and lifted the soft cotton panties in to my mouth. Swirling my tongue in circles as I stood, I drew the thin material into my mouth, and smiled at her, my cheeks bulging.
A look dashed across her face. It might have been arousal or amusement, but she didn’t let it distract her and she kept looking at me. Her panties were so small, the material so thin, that they easily fit in the palm of my hand when I opened my lips and let them fall out of my mouth.
I curled my hand around them and slipped them into the pocket of my slacks, silently glad that I had worn black today, to hide any moisture that may soak through.
Now she smiled at me and stepped backwards, but not in the direction I expected.
She reached down and grabbed the hem of her skirt and began to lift it up, gathering the material and the soft layers underneath.
Her thighs revealed themselves to be strong and lean, a testimony to the hours she spent on her bike and at the gym. As her hands lifted higher, revealing more of her legs, I stepped backward and steadied myself against the wall. With a final flick of her wrist, she lifted her skirt up over her bum while she kept her body covered in front.
“Tell me again.”
I stammered an incoherent response.
“Tell me again what you want.”
Taking a deep breath to control my voice, I whispered, “Pee for me.”
With that phrase still hanging in the air, she lifted her skirt and spread her legs in one moment. Shaved clean from stem to stern, she revealed herself to me and, with her free hand, spread her beautiful, bare lips, and began to pee.
It came out with a soft sizzling sound and in a dark golden arc until it hit the floor and filled our 8x8 room with the steady sound of splashing water. My head started spinning as I watched her pee leave her body from within the folds of her pink flesh. My blood roared in my ears and a rush of vertigo threatened to overcome me. I watched and saw her flexing her muscles to start and stop the flow, as if she were eager to demonstrate her mastery over her own body. I stared as her lips moved, clenching to stop the golden flow, and then relaxing and opening to let it go again.
My arousal was off the charts and I knew that the afternoon would be haze of headaches and stomach cramps unless I found immediate relief and release.
She spread her legs further and squatted down as her flow began to subside. Little spurts hit the floor as she pushed on her bladder from inside to expel the final drops.
The silence that followed the last drops was unbearable. I just stared at the half-naked woman with her legs spread and her lips wet with her own pee.
She smiled and straightened her legs, keeping them spread, but using her hands to protect her skirt from getting stained.
“Huh?” I responded, unsure if I heard her correctly.
“Wipe me sweetie,” her smile lit up the room, “I don’t want to get my hands dirty while I hold my skirt.”
I stepped over to the toilet and unrolled 12 or so squares and folded them gently in my hand. Gingerly, I moved towards her and reached between her open legs and patted her dry, keeping a barrier of folded tissue between her lips and my fingers, afraid of escalating the situation any further.
“Wipe me again,” she said, “but only use one square, and sweetie, you’ll need to press harder than that.
Friday, December 7, 2007
She drives me crazy.
It's not just that she's a 24-year-old hottie, but she's just so nice, and cute, and fun to be around. All the things I'm not anymore.
Earlier in the day we were joking about Christmas presents and put "hand-cuffs" on her "list." She objected for a bit, then said that I could give them to her since I had already finished my shopping. And then it hit me, this image of her, naked except for some thigh highs and stiletto heels, her hands cuffed and held above her head. Her knees are together as she tries to hide herself as I sit in a chair next to the bed and look at her, dressed only in my silk robe and matching boxers.
Her skin is smooth and white, her long brown hair, too thin for her tastes, is braided and falls down her back, exposing her neck, shoulders, collar bones and breasts. Her nipples, which she admits to enjoying immensely when she is by herself, are dark and full, and swollen with anticipation of what ever I decide for her.
This image stuck in my head for the rest of the afternoon.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I'm not sure if this is an advertisement or a warning.
The bad thing is, the tempting thing is, that they don't block FLICKR at work like most porn sites.
Danger, Danger, Danger - Productivity in Free Fall
I stepped off the bus and the street was quiet. I turned right after stepping through the crosswalk, passing the bright and garish lights of the corner drugstore. The rest of the street was quiet, storefronts dark in the early morning, adding to a sense of stillness that seemed out of place in the middle of the village. The clouds of a gathering storm cast a bluish tint to the scene, and encouraged a sense of solitude, that did not want to be broken. It struck me as I walked that I was the only person, the only thing, moving.. The roar of my bus faded as it made its way south to its next stop, and all was quiet. Hushed.
The feeling of emptiness was so pronounced that I had to stop moving. I stepped back into the alcove that held the door to the rundown shoe repair shop and started watching, and a listening to all of the sounds that were not there. I felt myself dissolving backwards into the shadows of this tiny alcove that I had found. It was as if I was hiding from a rainstorm that have not yet started, and I wanted to keep myself safe, unnoticed, and out of the way. An overwhelming empathy for those lonely men who found nightly shelter in alcoves such as this washed over me. Trying to find a place to hide, a place not to be robbed, a place not to be noticed, in a futile search for a good night's sleep and clarity of mind, both of which are missing from their daily existence.
As I stood and watched, a man in a tattered green sweater-vest came out of the coffee shop at the far end of the block and walked toward an old model town car, paint peeling and backseat full of newspapers and old clothes. He had in his hand a cup of coffee; a plain white Styrofoam cup warmed his hands. This was not the coffee of the young professionals who would soon litter the street with their cell phone chatter and overpriced shoes. This was the coffee of the down and out, have-caf venti, no Latte, no "I needed this at 140°" coffee. This was $.50 a cup coffee, sharp, bitter, and cheap. He set his coffee cup on top of his car and fumbled with his keys. They were pulled out of pants pockets with frayed edges and fading colors. The key ring was large and he had to search for the one key that would put him back in his home.
The keys, all but one unused and unneeded, served as a reminder of the doors he could once open, but could no longer unlock. Keys to a home, an office, a filing cabinet full of important papers that someone would need some day. The keys would unlock safety deposit boxes in banks and towns long abandoned by this wandering man, now clad in a tattered green sweater-vest.
Failing to find the proper key he cursed and his shoulders drooped and he shook his head in frustration. As he reached to grab for his coffee cup his arthritic thumb, unable to bend in time, poked into the side of the coffee cup and it spilled on the windshield of his crumbling, dysfunctional home. His outburst of profanity seemed out of place on my quiet little street, and I was mad at him for intruding. His voice, tinged with anger, echoed against the closed windows of the deli, in front of which he was illegally parked. His words of fury and loneliness bounced from shop to shop as a loud early morning reminder that we were to blame for the coffee stain on the windshield of the man in Iraqi green sweater.
Fruitlessly he pounded on the roof of his car, and then as if making apology, gently stroked the peeling Naugahyde roof. He grabbed the empty Styrofoam cup and began the long walk back to the coffee shop, knowing that he would have to ask, to beg, for a free refill when none were offered.
My alcove seemed to swirl with the darkness of the early morning. Unformed the rain clouds overhead added to a sense of loss and isolation to the tableau in front of me. I inched backwards, deeper into the stillness. I questioned the value of going in to work, to continuing the charade that fills my day.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
I saw her on-line in my chat program and started writing something I could send her line-by-line. This is what I came up with.
I wanted to say howdy
I don’t have time to chat
I have to eat my salad
To stop from getting fat
From my gay barber, Clinton
He wants to dye it and make,
Me look like Tilda Swinton
But work it isn’t finished
The in-box never emptied
My task list aint diminished
So now I’m off and running
To another meeting
I’d like to hang around more
Our time is often fleeting
I like it when we talk and talk
At home or when in
But when I go to Jamba Juice
I think of you while boostin’
They frequently don’t rhyme
I would go back and fix it
But now I’m out of time.
As a side-note, is Tilda Swinton the ugliest working actress in the world? OMGoodnes she's not very pretty.